


(i figured out) where i belong

by scrapbullet



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, Future Fic, Growing Old Together, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Post-Finale, Unexpected Visitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 03:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11245764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: Days turn to weeks, to months, to years, and the grey streak in Thomas’ hair has amassed the entirety of his once-blond head. Your back aches after long, your knees clicking and creaking when you rise, and when you retire to bed it is to the warmth of Thomas’ arms and the evidence of his love; his lips soft and pliable against your own, even now.But there is something missing, your heart tells you. There is a void where there should be another, a lacuna that begs to be filled.





	(i figured out) where i belong

**Author's Note:**

> Is my shit ever beta read?

When was the last time you watched the sun set? Just sat upon the sand until it cooled, soft and damp on your boots? Closed your eyes and breathed in, head tipped back and arms out-stretched, to taste and feel what the sea gifts you? When was the last time you tasted the food on your plate, _truly_ ; savoured each nourishing mouthful and revelling in being _full_ ; remembering all too clearly the hollow leaden feeling of hunger in the pit of your belly? When was the last time you appreciated, _enjoyed_ , and did not merely _exist?_

(It was with Silver, you tell yourself. It was letting someone, other than Miranda, get so close as to squirm beneath your skin and make a home. And _oh_ , that is precisely what Silver did. The little shit pestered and prodded and worked his way into your thoughts, your heart, until the grief of Miranda’s passing was not so much _lesser_ as _eased_. 

Silver reminded you that there were, are, things worth living for. That even with the war, with the blood-lust in your veins erupting in a heart-breaking, blood-soaked schism between the two of you, there is more to life than merely existing.

Yes, Silver - _John_ , your ally, your friend - has changed you, and for the better. The sorrow and disappointment yet lingers, true, but time and distance grants a clarity of mind that leads you to wonder - to dissect and pull apart the pieces until they begin to make sense.)

The days are hard and long, the work of a decidedly different sort than what you are useful, and yet you find yourself content. The little house with its land is a promise, and not so far from the sea that you cannot visit it every now and then - saddling the horse to traverse the market, inhaling the odour of fish and brine, to bring Thomas the smallest of offerings. 

It is a good life you have; Thomas teaching the children their letters whilst you tend to the land. It is a good life, a wonderful life, of dawn after the long dark. You learn to cherish the simple things, the little pleasures, and so you stitch yourself back together, thread by thread and piece by piece. 

(You love the taste of peaches, their sticky sweetness a boon; smeared across Thomas’ mouth like the honeyed nectar-wine of Dionysus. 

You love the breeze, warm in the cloying summer evenings, that brings you together.

You love the secret indents at the base of Thomas’ spine, dimpling delightfully and always eager for your kisses.)

Days turn to weeks, to months, to years, and the grey streak in Thomas’ hair has amassed the entirety of his once-blond head. Your back aches after long, your knees clicking and creaking when you rise, and when you retire to bed it is to the warmth of Thomas’ arms and the evidence of his love; his lips soft and pliable against your own, even now.

 _But there is something missing_ , your heart tells you. There is a void where there should be another, a lacuna that begs to be filled.

That lacuna, _that gaping maw_ , is a man with one leg leaning heavily on a crutch, standing on your porch with all the self-reproach of a blooded saint. Silver - bearing a scar that cuts over his face, bisecting an eye slicing over his nose - has as much grey in his curly hair as not, and before he can utter a single, incisive remark, you pull him toward you and into an embrace.

He remains stiff in your arms for but a moment, spine of steel and jaw clenched tight, no doubt expecting your ire. “James?” He says finally, lowly, the word tremulous on his tongue.

Behind you Thomas stands, rising from the rocking chair that he so favours, blanket around his shoulders to stave off the chill. There is a smile in his voice when he speaks; fond and content, and he slips his fingers through your hair, tugging gently, playfully. “Perhaps I should boil water for tea, hm?”

Silver, _John_ , melts in your arms, then, as if he were always meant to be. Given wordless permission he rests his chin on your shoulder, heart a thudding beat against your chest, as fast and fluttering as a birds.

“You took your time,” you say, clutching him tighter, and so you feel him tremble, over-come.

“I’m never late,” John scoffs, “you’re the one that moved to the arse-end of nowhere.” 

You stifle laughter as you draw him inside, a crutch both physical and spiritual; accepting him within your home just as you have your heart.

The gully closes, and you are complete.


End file.
